The truth finally came out one evening.
The feeling stayed with me.
Barry had been over many times by then, but that night, something felt different when he arrived. He seemed distracted and nervous. We sat at the table eating, but Barry just picked at his food.
Then suddenly his fork slipped from his hand and clattered onto the plate.
Karen slammed her hand on the table. “How long are you going to keep lying?” she suddenly shouted. “When are you finally going to tell him the truth?”
I stared at her in confusion. “Honey, enough.”
“How long are you going to keep lying?”
But she wasn’t done.
“No, it’s not enough!” she snapped. “How dare you lie to my husband and not tell him what you did to his real son? Tell him what you told me the last time before you left. I confronted Barry about being here the other day while you were in the bathroom. He confessed. I didn’t tell you until now because I didn’t want to hurt you. But I can’t keep this to myself anymore.”
Barry stared at the table.
My voice barely worked. “Barry,” I said slowly, “what is she talking about?”
For several seconds, Barry had a strange expression on his face and didn’t answer. Then he finally looked at me. And what he said next nearly made me fall out of my chair.
“Tell him what you told me the last time before you left.”
“She’s right,” Barry said quietly.
“What are you saying?” I asked.
Barry swallowed hard. “He wasn’t supposed to be there. I mean, your son.”
Karen started crying. The sound was raw and painful, the kind that comes from years of buried anger.
My hands gripped the edge of the table.
Barry continued. “Fifteen years ago, I got mixed up with some older boys. I was 11. My mom worked all the time. I pretty much raised myself, and when you’re a kid alone that much, you find ways to stay busy.”
